


Not To My Knowledge

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anthea (Sherlock) is the Best PA, Developing Relationship, Good stuff happens on Thursdays, Greg is Sweet, M/M, Mystrade Valentines Calendar 2018, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 11:19:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13612275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg discovers nobody has ever courted (wooed? chased? pursued? had designs on?) Mycroft. He sets out to do so - with Mycroft's permission, of course.





	Not To My Knowledge

“Is something the matter, Detective Inspector?”

Mycroft’s voice pulled Greg out of his reverie. “Well, you refuse to call me Greg, for a start.”

“Gregory, then.” At Greg's exasperated look, Mycroft stiffly amended it to "Greg."

“It’s just…New Year’s, you know?” Greg sighed. “The next thing’s Valentine’s Day, and that’s not so much fun when you’re single.” He gazed around the now empty street, streetlight sparkling off the dark puddles.

“I suppose so.”

Greg was lost in his thoughts now. He mused, “I just miss the build-up, especially when you’re trying to impress someone, or even better when there’s someone you know likes you, and there’s all the flirting and stuff. Good for the self-esteem.”

“I’ll have to take your word for that.”

“What do you mean?” Greg asked blankly.

“I have never been in the position to be the focus of someone’s romantic attentions, in February or any other month,” Mycroft admitted.

“You’ve never had someone pursue you?” Greg asked in amazement.

“Not to my knowledge,” replied Mycroft.

“No random phone calls, little presents, compliments, lingering looks, late dinners, engineered casual meetings…” Greg asked, eyebrows rising as Mycroft shook his head ‘no’ to each. Greg couldn’t believe someone as striking as Mycroft had never had an admirer brave enough to make their attraction known.

“Well,” considered Greg, looking at Mycroft speculatively, “Perhaps you should have.”

Mycroft came as close to snorting with laughter as Greg had ever seen. “I can think of few people from whom I would be pleased to receive such attention.”

“Well tell me who they are and I’ll send them a memo.” Greg looked at Mycroft, not sure if they were teasing now.

Mycroft tilted his head, considering. Greg felt his eyes move over the grey hair, tanned face, the suit he knew was showing its age. He seemed to be considering something.

“Of the very few candidates,” Mycroft replied finally, “I believe you are the only one who fits all the criteria.”

Greg frowned until he understood what Mycroft was saying. “Me?” he asked, pointing to himself.

“I’m not certain,” Mycroft said, “but it would be interesting to be involved in the process.”

Greg found himself nodding. “Okay, then.” He grinned. He was going to use everything he knew to woo Mycroft Holmes.

+++

The next day, Greg called Mycroft for no particular reason.

“Just wanted to see how your day’s going,” Greg told him when Mycroft asked for the purpose of his call.

“We spoke yesterday,” Mycroft replied.

“Yes, and it’s been twenty…six hours since then,” Greg said patiently. “I’m asking about how they’ve been.” He paused, then added, “I wanted to hear your voice.”

He grinned as Mycroft gave him a slightly startled rundown of his day, vague enough not to breach security and laced with slight suspicion.

“Well I’m glad to hear nothing’s been too rough,” Greg replied cheerily. “Any plans for tonight?”

“Dinner with the Prime Minister,” Mycroft replied. “Not as exciting as it may sound.”

“Doesn’t sound exciting,” Greg retorted, “sounds dull as watching paint dry.”

“And yourself?” Mycroft asked, ignoring the good-natured jibe.

“Paperwork,” Greg admitted with a sigh. “I’m sure Donovan keeps arresting people just so I have something to do.”

“Terrible,” Mycroft said. “Fire her immediately.” His voice bore the tiniest trace of amusement.

“Who’d make my coffee?” Greg said, grinning into the phone.

“Indeed,” Mycroft murmured. There was a pause before he continued, “I’m sorry, I must conclude our conversation.”

“No problem. Hope the dinner isn’t too bad,” Greg said easily.

“Thank you,” Mycroft said. “Good evening, Greg.”

“’Night, Mycroft.”

+++

“What’s in it for me?” Sherlock asked petulantly.

Greg rolled his eyes and waved several cold case files at the detective. Sherlock peered suspiciously and Greg wondered if he’d have to threaten another drugs bust to get Anthea’s number.

“Why do you want to talk to her anyway?” Sherlock asked, snatching for the files.

Enough experience had given Greg good reflexes; he pulled them out of Sherlock’s reach.

“None of your business,” he replied lightly. “Are you interested or not? These aren’t going to solve themselves, you know.” He pulled out the sweetener. “They’re all Anderson’s cases. You’d be able to show him up, one, two, three, four, five times.” Greg counted off the files in his hand.

After two long breaths Sherlock sighed dramatically and took the files. “I’ll send you the number.”

Greg didn’t move until Sherlock pulled out his phone and took five seconds to forward the contact.

“Ta,” said Greg as he turned to leave. He waited until he was in a cab to call Anthea.

“Yes?” She answered.

“It’s Greg Lestrade,” he said. “I need to know where Mycroft is.” The dead silence was Anthea’s way of asking why he needed to know, and Greg had argued enough to know it was easier to just tell her. “He told me nobody’s ever tried to seduce him, so I’m doing it.” The silence changed, disbelief somehow flowing down the line. “He knows,” Greg added. “I’m not blindsiding him.”

Finally, Anthea spoke. “He walks around St. Andrew’s Park when he arrives home on Monday and Thursday evenings.” She paused. “Was there anything else?”

“Nope,” said Greg. “Thanks Anthea.”

She’d hung up before he’d finished speaking, which was par for the course. Greg was actually surprised she’d given Mycroft up so easily. He’d expected to have to talk pretty fast to convince her of his good intentions. Thankfully today was Monday. Not-thankfully, he had no idea what Mycroft’s schedule was like. Ah, well, with good weather forecast, he’d be able to wander around until he happened to run into Mycroft.

Greg grinned to himself. He hadn’t had this much fun in years. And with Valentine’s Day not too far away, ideas were beginning to brew about how he could show Mycroft what all the fuss was about.

+++

Greg had arrived in the vicinity of the park in the late afternoon, hours before Mycroft could reasonably be expected to finish at work. By now he’d been hanging out in the neighbourhood for hours; a quick bite at the local pub had been interrupted by a text from Anthea.

_The eagle has flown the nest._

Greg grinned. He knew Anthea would be on board. Given the relatively early hour – it was barely 8pm – he suspected she’d had some influence over Mycroft’s departure time.

Greg downed the last of his pint and stepped out of the bar, the evening air just a little colder than was comfortable. His breath clouded as he exhaled, striding along the street to warm his legs before he crossed Regent’s Road and entered the park.

There was no clue as to how long it would be before Mycroft arrived at the park, so he slowed as the trees embraced him, shielding him from the noise of the road. Assuming Mycroft came directly home and didn’t stop to change or have a drink, Greg figured it would be between half an hour and an hour until they ran into each other in the small park. It was quite dark now, but Greg had done some reconnaissance while it was light, walking the circuit and familiarising himself with the entrances.

He felt the cold air seep into his fingers and made fists to try and keep the blood flowing. The dramatic light and shadows kept his eyes moving, his sixth sense prickling continuously as his subconscious assessed the environment. It was uncomfortable but in so many years of policing Greg had learned to listen to it, so he wasn’t irritated by its presence.

Soon an hour had passed, then an hour and a half; Greg wondered if Anthea had been pulling his leg earlier. He’d checked his phone twice, to no avail. As it crept up on ten o’clock, Greg stopped at an intersection of two paths. He bit his lip, trying to decide if he should cut his losses.

Just as he’d decided to give it five more minutes, a familiar silhouette had approached. He grinned with relief.

“Hiya,” Greg said. They stopped, and Greg thrust his hands in his pockets, watching Mycroft blink in the dim light. “How’s it going?”

“Without intending to be rude,” Mycroft said, his voice heavy with suspicion, “may I ask why you are here?”

“Just out for a stroll,” Greg replied lightly.

“Really.” Mycroft’s voice was disbelieving. Greg started walking, waiting until a reluctant Mycroft fell into step with him. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

Greg chuckled. “Call it a fluke.”

They walked in the dark for a moment until Mycroft said suddenly, “Is this part of the…” his extensive vocabulary failed him, and he waved one hand in the air instead.

“Wooing?” Greg asked, laughter spilling over before he finished the word. “Courting? Flirting?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said.

“Yes,” Greg replied, then clarified, “I’m courting you, remember?”

Mycroft went quiet for a while before asking tentatively, “Engineered casual meeting?”

“Engineered casual meeting,” Greg confirmed.

The “Oh,” was quiet.

They continued their walk through the darkness, not touching but drawn together in the quiet cool air. Greg felt no need to break the atmosphere with small talk, which was odd as with anyone else, he’d be blathering on, hoping to impress with tales of his heroic criminal catching or football feats. Tonight, though it was enough to be together, companionship in the shadows.

Half an hour later, Mycroft came to a quiet halt at one of the gates.

He looked uncomfortable, so Greg spoke. “Time to head home?” he asked.

“Indeed,” Mycroft’s voice was relieved.

“Thanks for walking with me, your company was just what I needed,” said Greg, smiling to himself at the look of surprised pleasure blossoming on Mycroft’s face. “See you again soon?”

“Certainly,” Mycroft replied. Greg grinned at him one more time, allowing the moment, that delicious moment of possibilities, to draw out before he turned and walked away, forcing himself not to look back. This had taken a surprising turn, but he found himself intrigued by the development.

+++

“Good afternoon, Greg,” Mycroft greeted him.

“Had my number added to your phone, then?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied.

“How was the rest of your evening?” Greg asked, stretching back in his chair.

It was a Friday, and they’d shared another near silent walk around St. Andrew’s Park the previous evening, their fourth so far. Mycroft no longer commented on his appearance in the park, or the seemingly random phone calls with little apparent purpose. Greg still sometimes caught the edges of Mycroft’s gentle astonishment at his lingering glances and compliments. Initially Greg had pre-prepared compliments, looking for conversational openings in which to drop them for maximum effect.

As the days went by, Greg found his conversation flowed more freely, the compliments genuine and spontaneous.

It had been a carefully orchestrated four weeks. Phone calls, ‘accidental’ meetings (though always in the park, given Mycroft’s security), and one memorable dinner. The dinner had been an effort, requiring several phone calls to Anthea and a fictitious appointment in Mycroft’s calendar. Greg had arrived at the Diogenes, following the strict instructions Anthea had emailed him, heart pounding in case he was recognised as the interloper he certainly was. The anxiety was worth it, though, at the surprised pleasure that flashed over Mycroft’s face when he saw Greg waiting for him in the private dining room.

 “How…”he trailed off, before understanding flooded across his face. “Anthea.”

“Yep,” Greg grinned, ridiculously pleased with himself to have engineered the evening successfully. Mycroft had relaxed once they had finished their drinks, and the conversation had moved along smoothly. Greg discovered that Mycroft had a working knowledge of football, zero knowledge of Harry Potter and a perfect French accent. The football was surprising though it allowed for a spirited discussion of which teams actually deserved relegation. When their meal was served, Mycroft read aloud the wine label, his French accent taking Greg by surprise.

“Your accent is excellent,” Greg commented.

“We were schooled in languages from an early age,” Mycroft revealed. “I was fortunate enough to find myself to have an aptitude for the subject.”

Greg nodded. “My father spoke French at home. He figured we needed a connection to our heritage.”

The conversation drifted to French food and culture as they ate and drank. It had occurred to Greg the moment he walked in that Anthea had played a hand in the setup of the room – for such a large dining table, it was fairly obvious that the two places set at right angles on one end were for an intimate dinner.

Right now he was pleased to be so close to Mycroft; it had allowed him to lay one hand on Mycroft’s arm several times (“Will you pass me the salt, ta,”, “That’s gotta be a record, right?”, “This wine is amazing, did you chose it?”). Each time he’d felt Mycroft tense but ignored it, suppressing a smile as the flicker of surprise was hastily covered. Even now, when Mycroft knew what he was doing, there was still that surprise from him, the disbelief that Greg would even pretend to be interested in him. It was endearing, really.

Greg was sure the list of people who’d seen a vulnerable Mycroft was exceptionally short, and he was oddly flattered to be consciously included in that exclusive group. With a good stern word to himself, Greg convinced himself that the increased heart rate and whisper of butterflies in his stomach were a result of that flattery and nothing more.

+++

When Greg’s mobile rang three days later, he grinned before answering the unlisted number, “Good morning, Mycroft.”

“Good morning,” replied Mycroft. “You had a package delivered to the Diogenes Club, I understand.”

“Did I?” Greg asked, deliberately vague.

“Greg,” Mycroft’s tone was gently reproachful. “Of all the people who know of my linguistic history, and there are very few, you are the only one I could imagine purchasing me a copy of,” he paused, apparently reading from the cover, “ _On the Origin of Language: Tracing the Evolution of the Mother Tongue_.”

“Well, I figured that it wouldn’t matter how many languages you speak or understand or whatever, it’s English that’s your favourite.”

“It is,” Mycroft replied. “Thank you, Greg, it’s very thoughtful.”

“Anytime.”

There it was again, another of those moments. Drawing out long and warm, neither of them speaking. At last, a long breath shuddered down the phone. “I must go,” Mycroft murmured. “Perhaps, this evening, I might see you in the park.” His voice became amused. “If you should happen to be there, of course.”

“Oh, is it Thursday?” Greg asked. “I didn’t realise.” He listened to Mycroft’s chuckle, deep and intimate down the line. “I might just be there.”

They both hung up and Greg stared at his phone for a long moment. It seemed there was an unexpected outcome to this experiment, and he could no longer convince himself it was anything other than genuine affection. He’d never have expected to discover such a connection to Mycroft.

Greg wasn’t sure if he’d recognise it for what it was, assuming he felt it at all. The main thing, though, was that with Mycroft’s inexperience, the last thing Greg wanted to do was take advantage of him. So with Valentine’s Day less than a week away, he effectively had to court Mycroft without embarrassing himself by showing his true hand.

+++

“Greg,” Mycroft greeted him in the dark. Greg had only arrived fifteen minutes earlier. Anthea had made it her job to let Greg know when Mycroft left work on a Monday and Thursday, allowing him to time his arrival with Mycroft’s. He was grateful for the help, and wondered what Anthea thought of the whole thing. Whatever the specifics, she clearly approved. He hoped.

“Hi,” Greg spoke quietly. It was colder tonight than it had been, and his hands bunched in his pockets. He wished he’d thought to bring his gloves.

They walked slowly, as always. Mycroft would walk for thirty to forty five minutes before leaving Greg at the same exit each time. Greg assumed the stress of his day directly affected how long he walked but had never asked. Mycroft’s job had a far higher security clearance than his, and it was unlikely he’d be able to answer fully anyway. He hoped Mycroft’s day had been straightforward, but conversely, that he would stay the full three quarters of an hour. The irrationality of his thoughts made him shake his head at himself.

When they’d reached the furthest corner of the park, Mycroft stopped. It was dark here, the rays from the streetlamp not quite reaching the corner in which the stood. Greg stopped, his attention increasingly on stopping himself from shivering violently. He really was under-dressed for this evening. It was more than just his fingers that were cold; all his extremities were chilled by now.

“You’re cold,” Mycroft said.

“Yeah,” Greg gritted out. He knew his shoulders were hunched, fists still clenched in his pockets. If it wasn’t so dark he’d be self-conscious about it, but he was too cold to care.

“Did you not bring…why do you not have an overcoat?” Mycroft asked.

“Left it at work,” Greg told him. As cold as he was, there was no way he’d be going home early. Greg gritted his teeth, clenching muscles to try and stem the shudders now wracking his body. _You idiot,_ he thought to himself, _you’re going to freeze to death in pursuit of Mycroft Holmes_.

Just before the shudders threatened to overcome him, Greg felt a hand slide onto his shoulder. Bringing his head up, blinking into the darkness, Greg saw an outline, a different depth of black before him. The shudders aside, Greg remained still, wondering what would happen next. The hand pressed, fingers curling over his shoulder. Pressure on his shoulder blade pulled him forward, shuffling into the dark until another hand slide around his back and he felt himself…cuddled?

It was not what he had expected. Mycroft’s arms were awkward, but Greg realised they were warm (or warmer than he was, at any rate), and he melted into it. He’d never really considered the exact difference in their height, but as his body pressed against Mycroft’s, his face was the perfect height to press into Mycroft’s throat.

His head tilted and Greg found his lips resting half on Mycroft’s soft scarf and half on his bare skin. As far as he could tell, Mycroft wasn’t breathing.

Carefully Greg withdrew his hands from his pockets, wrapping them around Mycroft’s waist. The blast of warm air as Mycroft exhaled blew over the back of his neck and Greg felt his stiff posture relax as he realised Greg was accepting his embrace.

They stood in silence, arms around each other in the darkness. Greg felt marginally warmer, and his shudders had certainly subsided. He’d subtly turned his head, adjusting so his lips were not so near to the skin he was so tempted to taste. Surely Mycroft’s neck was warm? He had the scarf, of course, and probably gloves, and there was definitely an overcoat. His core temperature would be far more comfortable than Greg’s.

The swirl of his mind was disconcerting, and Greg was trying to avoid thinking directly about the situation he was in. eventually it was inescapable. Mycroft had hugged him. Was still doing so, in fact. Mycroft’s arms were holding him, his spine was bent a little, face tilted down if the gentle blow of warm air along his ear was anything to go by. Was he smelling Greg’s hair? As slightly weird as that was out of context, Greg had to admit he’d been concentrating on the enticing scent of Mycroft. It was quite inescapable, given his proximity, but still. He could also be said to be smelling Mycroft and it wasn’t weird, it was sexy as hell.

“Mycroft,” Greg asked. His voice sounded loud in the space defined by their bodies. “Do you have plans on Tuesday evening?”

He felt Mycroft stiffen then relax, as though fighting an autonomic reaction. “I don’t believe so,” Mycroft said.

“I’d like to take you out to dinner,” Greg said. He hoped Mycroft knew what day it was on Tuesday. Either way it was a date, but Tuesday was more significant than a random day.

“I would be pleased to accompany you.” Mycroft replied.

Greg wanted to look at Mycroft, despite the almost complete blackness. He pulled back a little, straining his eyes to see. There was nothing to see, but he could hear Mycroft’s breathing and sense his presence close, so very close in front of him.

“How have you found it, being wooed?” Greg asked impulsively. He wondered what Mycroft’s face looked like right now. For all the frustration he sometimes felt at Mycroft’s inscrutability, it seemed he did rely on the subtle facial expressions to read him.

“It has been…more enjoyable that I expected.” The response was so reflective of Greg’s experience he couldn’t help but huff out a laugh.

“Was that funny?” Mycroft murmured. “I can’t see your face.”

“I know,” Greg replied. “Not funny. But if you asked me how the last few weeks had been, wooing you, I’d have said exactly the same thing.”

“Ah,” said Mycroft. “So, Tuesday evening then. Is that the culmination of the experiment, then?”

Greg couldn’t decide if he sounded relieved or disappointed. “That depends,” he answered, emboldened by the dark and the apparently raw honesty they were going with this evening.

“On what?”

Greg could feel Mycroft breathing faster as he waited on Greg’s response. “This, I think,” he murmured.

Before Mycroft could ask what he was talking about, Greg brought his hands around to Mycroft’s chest, pressing them up along the rough overcoat, fingers searching across the cashmere scarf until they brushed Mycroft’s jaw. He flinched and a low chuckle escaped Greg, imagining the coldness of his skin against Mycroft’s warmth. His fingers kept searching up along Mycroft’s chin until he the pads of his fingers brushed against Mycroft’s parted lips. He could feel the stutter of air, matching the shudder of Mycroft’s body which was still pressed against Greg’s.

Having finally reached his target Greg slid one hand around to the nape of Mycroft’s neck, encouraging him to duck his head. Greg had tilted his face up, using the fingers on Mycroft’s lips as a guide. When his fingertips hit his own lips Greg withdrew, allowing the last few centimetres to close. Finally, Greg felt Mycroft’s lips press against his. They were soft and warmer than he imagined.

Greg pulled back then surged forward, sliding his lips against Mycroft’s, pressing more insistently, firmer and slick. When Mycroft started kissing him back, Greg groaned, releasing the dam he’d constructed against the desire that had been building over the last week in particular. He tilted his head, angling to kiss Mycroft deeper, to taste him, find out if that intoxicating smell was replicated in his mouth.

Mycroft complied with his silent request, a gasp sounding loud as Greg’s tongue traced the line of his upper lip. Greg pulled him closer, pressing their bodies together, the shudder this time having nothing to do with the cold.

“Still cold?” Mycroft asked. Greg thought he was aiming for smug but it sounded more like a smothered groan.

“Nope,” Greg replied in between kisses. “So I’m thinking this is going to be an ongoing project, then?”

“Mmmmm,” Mycroft replied, kissing him again. “I certainly believe there are further details to be explored.”

Greg hummed with satisfaction. “I look forward to it.” 


End file.
